Good-bye, Brother Dear
by trevor20081
Summary: Set directly after reichenbach falls, Mycroft and Sherlock say their good-bye


Good-bye, Brother dear  
**AN: I am reposting this story. Hopefully it is easier to read now. This is my first fanfic. Reviews are appreciated.**

The last few hours had been a strain. After Sherlock's fall, Mycroft had the unenviable task of going to Bart's to 'identify the body'. The ID in itself wasn't hard. It was all show. He entered the morgue. Miss Hooper, who was in on the whole thing, showed the body that had been chosen to take the place of Sherlock. He signed papers confirming the body was indeed his brother. And that was there was to it.

The hard part came after the identification. As he exited, he encountered: one distraught and angry Doctor, one shell shocked Detective Inspector and one very smug Detective Sergeant. He knew they were there, he had seen them on his way in. The DI would not be too much trouble. Probably just wanted to offer condolences. Mycroft wasn't sure what the DS was doing here, but if should easy enough to ignore whatever snide comment she might say. No, the hard part was Dr. Watson.

As Mycroft approached, he tried to get a read on the man. Obviously, he was upset. He was sitting with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His face was pale and his eyes red from crying. Lestrade sat beside him, hand on his shoulder. Lestrade seemed to be saying something, but Mycroft hadn't seen Dr. Watson say anything back. When spoken to, he would nod or shake his head in response. When Mycroft was about ten feet away, Dr. Watson caught sight of him. He stood up fast jaw set, fist clenched. This was a surprise to his two companions. It didn't surprise Mycroft.

There angry accusations hurled from the Doctor. Must along the lines of their earlier conversation. "Your own brother" , "You sold him out" and "I hope that information was worth it". As well as, a few statements that went something like "Don't you even care he's gone?". Mycroft, always the politian, listened looking contrite. When it was clear the good doctor had said all he was capable, Mycroft replied with a simple, "I'm sorry."

John frowned. Still angry but completely spent. He sat down heavily and took up his former pose. Lestrade, who had stood at his approach, mumbled his condolences, but from the look on his face he had believed at least some of what Dr. Watson said. He forced a semi-polite smile and nodded to Donovan. If the DS said anything he didn't hear.

In the car, on the way to his home, Mycroft reflected on the encounter. It had been difficult. More difficult than he had expected. The yelling and accusations weren't what had bothered him. He was use to grown men yelling like children. What had really gotten to him was the look on John's face before and after the speech. When he wasn't distracted by rage. It was hard to pin down the emotion present. Grief , disbelief, shock and _loss._ Not just that he had lost his friend, but almost as if he had lost part of himself. And he did not know what to do now that that part was gone. It was that lose that had almost stopped Mycroft cold.

Mycroft knew whatever John was feeling Sherlock would be feeling something similar. His brother was harder to read than the doctor, but Mycroft knew that Sherlock would feel the loss of John Watson, even if Sherlock knew it was meant to be temporary. Seeing the pain his brother must be in written so clearly, instead of carefully masked, made it so much more real. And it was the full realization of his dear brother's pain that had been difficult. Almost cracked is icy facade.

When he entered his sitting room, standing by the fireplace was his one weak spot. His dear brother was just finishing organizing a medium travel bag. His face was hidden in shadow, but his shoulders where hunched and his movements slow. He straightened when heard Mycroft enter. With a near perfect emotionless mask, turned to face is elder brother.

"Is it done?"

"Everything has been seen to. You should leave for the plane in fifteen minutes."

"Good. You spoken to Mummy and Father? It is all over the news. You know how they'd react."

"Yes, 'a bit not good' as you'd say. They have been informed. Not to worry." The phrase 'a bit not good' had come out almost before he knew it. Something that didn't often happen to Mycroft. He took that as more of a sign of how disturbed he was by the situation than anything else. He regretted it almost immediately when he so the Sherlock jaw clench slightly before schooling his features once again. Best not mention anything of John. The brothers had always had unique relationship. In Sherlock's childhood and Mycroft's youth, they had been best friends able to share secrets. Mycroft had been teacher, protector and confidant. As they grew older, they grew further apart. Sherlock didn't want his brother as a teacher, resented him as a protector and refused him as a confidant. Things had gotten better, sure. But they would never be as they were.

Mycroft knew an emotional scene would not help Sherlock. So he felt it best to ignore the slight anguish he saw on his brother's face. It would not help either of them for Mycroft to break through the wall Sherlock had built. It would only make things harder. Both brothers knew how the other felt. They cared for each other, would miss each other, would give anything for the other if they could. If they both knew how the other felt, what was the point in saying it out loud?

They sat, and spoke of the task Sherlock was about to undertake. Where he would start. What he should expect. How to get in contact. Sherlock knew all of this, but allowed the conversation anyway. He was not ready to leave yet, and Mycroft wasn't ready to let him go. The discussion was comforting to both. Then Mycroft looked at his watch. It was time. They stood, Sherlock picking up his bag and they walked to the entrance of the sitting room. They stopped at the threshold, and shook hands. Hands still clasp, they said their farewell.

"Do be careful. I'd hate to have inform Mummy and Father of your passing so soon after assuring them you were alive and well."

"Yes, I'll do my best not to inconvenience you. And look after yourself as well, watch the waist line don't lose your brolly."

With that they let go. Sherlock strode out to the waiting car. Threw his bag in the back seat and turned once more to the house. Through the open front door, he could see his brother still standing at the threshold of the sitting room. They hold each other's gaze for a few seconds before Sherlock turned and climbed into the backseat.

Mycroft walked to the window of the sitting. Watching the car until it was completely lost from view. When it was gone, he stood there for a few more seconds thinking of his brother. Not the masked man who just left, but the sweet, kindhearted young boy with open, loving face that he had once been. That boy still there, Mycroft knew. That boy was what he saw whenever he saw his brother.

Shaking his head slightly to clear away his thoughts, Mycroft returned to his seat by the fire side. He checked phone, there were many things to catch up on.


End file.
